


Cyclone

by Muffinworry



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:32:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7798393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muffinworry/pseuds/Muffinworry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sybil Reisz is twenty-three, white-blonde and dark-eyed, and ambition clings to her skin like perfume.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cyclone

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Sybil/City

***

You wouldn’t believe how much work it takes to make one simple dinner party go well. Actually, that’s not quite right, because _well_ is not enough. It has to be flawless. And it will be.

Sybil Reisz is twenty-three, white-blonde and dark-eyed, and ambition clings to her skin like perfume.

She shuffles her papers, studies the little colour-coded place holders, and moves them around, like a general ordering troops. _Not there, she’s such a bore, and he’ll fight with her husband, and-_ The seating plan springs into focus.

Sybil looks down at the ever-changing city below, the noise and colour and movement, and never wants to leave.

 

***

Sybil is twenty-seven now, well-heeled and shiny with achievements and hungry for more. She knows everyone in Cloudbank, has charm and a wide smile and the generosity that comes of knowing that she’s the very best at what she does. 

It’s not enough.

There’s a city out there, and it’s almost perfect. Sybil can feel it in her veins, all that potential, trapped in an endless cycle of building and tearing down. It could be a living monument, a work of art, but there’s no foundation. No real substance. She loves it with all her heart, but she craves – something new. Something that won’t vanish by the next dawn. It could be _flawless_ , if they’d only let her try.

When Grant asks her to come see him about some civic improvements he’s got planned, she goes.

***

It slowly begins to take shape, that city she’s always dreamed of. When they meet late at night to pick their next target, they talk about how peaceful the streets are, how the new bridges arch gracefully over glittering water. They don’t talk about the foundations it’s built on. Sybil is very, very good at hushing up stories, at smoothing over the disappearances, the questions. At giving people what they want to hear.

She spends her twenty-eighth birthday at a concert, on a whim.

***

Sybil is twenty-nine, and there’s a woman in her life. A woman who sings and sings, and every time Sybil hears her, her heart cracks a little under the pressure of those aching notes.

And then there’s a man, who looks at the woman the same way Sybil tries not to.

Sybil stands on her balcony and watches the sun set over Cloudbank. She tried, but as always, buildings, towers, roads and bridges are shimmering and changing. She watches as everything she worked to build is swept away by one fickle choice. Circling back to nothing again.

Sybil closes the windows, pours herself a glass of wine. Sits at a polished table and plays a half-hearted game of chess against herself to quiet her thoughts.

Absently, she slides a bishop into place to defend her queen.

Sybil stares at the board.

***

Sybil is – i!s – is t(hi)rrr – thirttTt – is thhiRrt[ERROR]yyy

Sybil is crouching on her heels in the middle of an empty stage and watching her own hands dissolve. Someone is dead and someone else is missing and Sybil is _all(one) alone a!one alone one one one zero error error error_ Her fingertips are black now, her thoughts a vortex of sheer panic. She stops trying to drag herself to safety when she realizes she’s been crawling in circles. Her voice clicks and stutters and echoes in her ears as she says a name, over and over again.

All around her, the city comes crashing down.

***

Sybil Reisz is thirty, and will be thirty forever.

The sky is terribly bright, in the country. Sybil keeps her hat low over her eyes. She’s been walking for what feels like hours. It’s impossible to tell. She looks at her feet as she plods through field after field of perfect golden grain. She drops a ribbon from her dress, tries to mark her path. The third time she passes it, she understands. She takes a deep breath and lets her footsteps steer her off the path, towards the farmhouse that’s always in the distance.

***

Sybil is lying awake between two warm bodies. She holds up her hands and looks at the slim gold bands on her right and left. Caught between circles again.

She thinks about cities, and about foundations. Storms and soft bright mornings. Circles and triangles. Trust and forgiveness, and how perhaps here, of all places, she can finally build something that lasts. Intangible and unexpected and real. It’s more than she deserves.

Sybil closes her eyes.


End file.
